


London, the city of opportunity

by Rainbowfootsteps



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:49:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowfootsteps/pseuds/Rainbowfootsteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis is stranded in London with no money and nowhere to go, and so implores for Arthur to take him in until he can get the mess he's in sorted out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Trust The Airport

**Author's Note:**

> this story is on an indefinite hiatus!

“Merde, what the hell do you mean they’re lost?” Francis yelled into his cell phone. The one time he decides to go by plane instead of train, and they lose his goddamn luggage.  
“My wallet was in there! My passport was in there! I need my bag!” He pleaded. The bored man at the other end of the phone sighed.  
“I’m sorry, sir. We’ll get back to you as soon as we find your luggage.” He said flatly.  
“C’est des conneries!” Francis muttered, pressing the ‘end call’ button as aggressively as he could. Just great. Stuck in London with nothing except the clothes on his back, his phone which was rapidly running out of power and a two euro coin in his back pocket that was now useless. His usually sparkling blue eyes were dark with frustration. Francis sighed. He’d have to find somewhere to sleep before the sun went down; it was already hanging low in the sky.

“Mon dieu…” he murmured, looking up at the London streets. It was nothing like his home town of Blois. Massive steel and glass high-rises reached for the heavens above him, glittering in the setting sun. Around him, bored business men and women bustled down the street, most of them looking at their feet. He felt awfully out of place in his white top, brown jacket and blue jeans, surrounded by grey suits and clicking stilettos. Maybe he could find a motel to stay at which would let him pay the next day, after he’d called up the bank his card was connected to. He started to walk away from the shuttle-car area which had taken him away from the main airport area and away from the largest buildings. The way he walked quickly became suburbia, house after identical house jammed together as far as the eye could see. What time was it? He pulled out his phone and pressed the home button. Nothing happened.  
“Oh, god.” He felt like bursting into tears. To make it worse, the sun was now hidden behind the skyscrapers behind him, making his shadow long and pale. He walked up and down the streets for a while, feeling more and more dejected as the sun set. Eventually as the sky was starting to go from a depressing grey to a depressing dark blue, he made a decision. His only option now was to implore at a house, or sleep outside and risk being mugged - not that he had anything to steal, but he didn’t fancy being beat up in the night. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the concrete steps to the closest house, which proclaimed ‘304’ on a metal sign hanging off the brick wall above the door, and knocked.

After a bit of shuffling and banging in the house the dark green door was pulled open. In front of Francis stood a rather raggedy blond man with almost comically large eyebrows, wearing a highly unfashionable knitted sweater and jeans so faded Francis felt sorry for them.  
“Um, excusez-moi for intruding, but-” Francis started off, but yelped when the door was slammed in his face.  
“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it!” The man yelled through the closed door. Francis blinked, and knocked again.  
“Please listen to me, monsieur! I have had truly terrible luck and I’m lost!” he called through the mail slot. After a pause the blond man stomped back to the door and opened it a little. He peered through suspiciously.  
“How do I know you aren’t a murderer or out to steal my telly?” He hissed suspiciously. Francis smiled a little.  
“S’il vous plait, monsieur, all I ask is to use your phone.” He replied. After a pause the man opened the door fully and begrudgingly waved Francis into the small house.  
“Come in, I suppose. My name’s Arthur.” He said flatly, as if Francis was greatly inconveniencing him.  
“Merci beaucoup, Arthur. My name is Francis.” Francis replied with a smile.   
“You’re a bloody frog through and through, aren’t you?”


	2. Rice, rice and more rice

“Feet off the table.” Arthur snapped. Francis complied, gently taking his shoes off Arthur’s coffee table and placing them on the rather sad brown carpet. Arthur’s house was a bit sad in general; everything was faded and clearly second hand, the last dregs of light filtering in through the dirty windows highlighting the thin layer of dust covering the furniture. Arthur himself was slowly carrying two mugs of tea into his tiny sitting room, where Francis sat on his equally tiny sofa.  
“So how the hell did you get lost? Get mugged, did you?” Arthur guessed. He put the mugs on the coffee table and slumped down on the only other seat in the room, a grey reclining chair. Francis shook his head.  
“My plane company lost my baggage.” He explained. The ridiculously strong tea in a chipped blue cup soothed him a little but he still felt rather exhausted from the day’s excitement. Arthur swore.  
“Bloody airports. The one time I go to Italy for a holiday I was crushed between two giant men who could have easily taken up two seats each.” He grumbled, taking an incensed sip of tea. Francis made a sympathetic sound. His tea quickly finished, he stood up and stretched.

“Si je - er, if I may use your phone?” He asked with a smile. Dammit, no matter how fluent he was at English, he had this habit of lapsing back into French. Arthur nodded and pointed at the kitchen.  
“It’s in the pantry.” He said with a yawn. Francis raised an eyebrow but said nothing, instead walking into Arthur’s kitchen. It was just as sad as his lounge, except in a different way. Almost completely empty, the only thing on the suspiciously stained counter was a kettle and a knife rack with a single knife sticking out of it. Francis tugged at the stiff pantry door until it opened. Inside was a rather frightening amount of rice and canned tomatoes and the phone, a little wireless black thing that looked like it had been through battle. He picked it up and punched in the number of the airport. Fortunately he’d had the foresight to scribble it on the back of his hand while on the shuttle-car taking him away from the airport.  
“Eh, ‘Allo?” He said into the phone. Arthur watched him suspiciously, probably still evaluating whether Francis was a chronic television-stealer.  
“No…. Francis Bonnefoy, I called up earlier. Yes…” He tapped his foot impatiently.  
“No, wait, hold on-” He groaned. Perky eighties songs started to play.  
“They’ve put me on hold!” He moaned.

An hour and a lot of desperate begging at an infuriating secretary later, Francis was still in Arthur’s house, sitting despondently on his couch, head in his hands. Arthur was tapping on a laptop, grunting occasionally.  
“Their policy is pretty vague, but I don’t think there’s anything you can do except wait.” Arthur finally said, closing the laptop gently. Francis glanced at the clock quietly ticking on the wall. Seven o’clock. Where would he go? He’d have to ask Arthur to take him in for the night.  
“Ah, Arthur…” He said with a hopeful smile.  
“It’s so late at night, I was wondering if it would be too much to ask to stay here for the night?” He asked. Arthur didn’t respond immediately, instead squinting at Francis. After a moment he gave a long, drawn out sigh.  
“Fine.” He replied, scrunching up his nose. Francis beamed.  
“Merci beaucoup! I can’t express how grateful I am.”  
“Whatever. You can pay me back by making dinner.”


	3. The windmills of your heart

Francis’ sleep was a fitful one. Arthur’s couch was lumpy and course and a dog outside seemed intent on howling as loudly as it could all night. When Francis glanced at the clock and it stated six o’clock he was all too happy to get up.

“Bloody hell, you’ve woken me up with all your goddamn crashing and banging!” Arthur moaned, grumpily walking into the kitchen.  
“I can’t-” He broke off and stared at what he saw. Francis grinned and waved at him, one hand flipping pancakes as the other rested on an open cookbook.  
“Good morning!” He chirped.   
“I couldn’t find any butter so I used some canola oil, and they don’t have any salt in them either, but I think they’ll turn out just fine.” He continued with a smile. Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise. The warm delicious aroma of the pancakes enveloped him and he almost smiled as he began to fill the kettle with water.  
“If you’ve used up all the sugar, I’ll kill you.” Arthur commented. Francis’s eyes widened a little but he said nothing, instead flipping a pancake extra vigorously. Arthur dragged himself to the pantry and poked his head inside.  
“Francis goddamnit, you used all the sugar didn’t you!”

That day, Francis learned that an Arthur without sugar in his morning tea is a very crabby Arthur. Breakfast, delicious as it was, managed to soothe him a little, but he was still rather sluggish.  
“I’ve got work today. You’d better have cleared off when I’m back. There must be someone you can call and ask for them to come over here and take you back.” Arthur grumbled. Francis shrugged.  
“I have no relations, and, well… I don’t know my friends’ phone numbers off by heart. They’re all on my phone’s contact list.” He replied rather sheepishly.   
“I was wondering if you would be able to spare the money for a train ticket.” He asked hopefully. Arthur snorted.  
“Twenty-three pounds? Unless you’ve forgotten, I’m just a tad poor. I’m living off noodles. Go busk or something.” He snapped. Francis didn’t reply.  
“I’ll be back around two. Hopefully you’ll be gone by then.” Arthur said pointedly.  
“Lock the door behind you on the way out.” He said acidly, getting up from the table and disappearing into his room. Francis felt rather hurt. He knew he was outstaying his welcome if he remained at Arthur’s another day, but he truly had nowhere to go.

-

“You don’t have French phonebooks? Are you sure? Alright. Thank you, goodbye.” Francis sighed as he put down the phone. He’d tried everything he could think of - he’d phoned the phone company back first, only to get a surly response of basically ‘shut up and wait’. Then he’d tried Arthur’s battered up old phonebook and was in the process of calling up bookstores and phonebook companies seeing if they made French ones. At this rate he’d find one that did in a couple of years. The only success he’d had was the somewhat obvious revelation that if he needed to, he could badger Arthur into letting him use his laptop for work. He leant on the pantry shelf and put his head in his hands. What did he do now? Do as Arthur suggested and busk on the streets? He only knew french songs, and there seemed to be a lot of French hate around here. Perhaps not the best idea. Instead he decided he’d keep himself busy for a while, and surely an idea would come to him.

Two hours later and Arthur’s apartment was probably the cleanest it had ever been. The layer of dust covering everything in his lounge room was gone, and where the ratty curtains once were, some less awful white curtains that Francis had found under the stairs now hung by each side of the lounge window. The bathroom was spick and span too. He’d certainly had enough trouble with the sink - infested with mildew, it had taken a lot of scrubbing and white vinegar to finally rid it from the house. But finally Francis slumped down on the couch, at a loss. It was almost two and he’d gotten nowhere on his quest to get back to France. He sniffed and made a face as he realised the smell of bleach and vinegar was rather overpowering. He went around the small house opening the few windows it had, and started to sing.  
“Comme une pierre que l´on jette, dans l´eau vive d´un ruisseau!” He sang as he struggled with the last kitchen window. The latch was rusted shut. He was so engrossed with opening the window that he didn’t notice Arthur come into the house.   
“What the shit have you done to my house?!”


End file.
